The Merry Dance nonslash sequel to On Your Mouth
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Moriarty is laying out a game for Sherlock, but it's not in Sherlock's court and he doesn't know the rules.An interactive game  that you can play.Last of "On Your Mouth I Will Tell It" but stand-alone. Now-what comes after
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Merry Dance - Prologue (Part 1 out of a min. of 10 - max of 15, and some will be very short)  
Non-slash stand alone sequel to "On Your Mouth I Will Tell It"  
**Rating:** PG (I don't believe it will go higher)  
**Warnings:** Language and some violence to not very nice people  
**Summary: **John has been kidnapped by Moriarty. Moriarty is laying out a game for Sherlock, but it's not in Sherlock's court and he doesn't know the rules?  
**Author's Note:** An interactive game (that you can play-see the end). This section is the last of "On Your Mouth I Will Tell It," but you need not read that to begin this (and a big thanks to everyone who's already started playing-sorry for the long delay, technical difficulties). There will be NO slash in order to welcome more players, but rest assured, the happy-ever-after that people want after "OYMIWTI" is half written already because I couldn't wait either, but it won't be necessary to read that to reach the end of this mystery. Confusing? Sorry-pm me if you want more details.

**Part 2-the beginning of the mystery proper is ready to go and will be posted tomorrow night.**

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"At any rate," continued Mycroft, "I happen to know that John is not at Baker Street. I presumed that he stayed with you, or at any rate in Edinburgh, or with some relative."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "What do you mean you don't know where he is? He checked out of the hotel and flew back to London on Boxing Day. And he doesn't have any relatives except his sister and he'd be pretty desperate to go to her."

But John was not at his sisters, and he wasn't at Sarah's and when Sherlock returned to Baker Street Mrs. Hudson was surprised that John hadn't returned with him.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs. There was a piece of paper attached to the door with cello-tape.

_Do you think they serve coffee in Coffeyville?  
__I doubt we'll get a decent cup of tea.  
__But if you've got some time to kill  
__Why don't you come over and play with me?  
L__et's play in the middle  
__And see what we see._

_-Jim_

_Oh, and I have a nice, new blog for you to RSVP, just like Dr. Watson_

_ .com_


	2. Chapter 1

"Black, black, black  
Is the color of my true love's hair  
And his lips are wondrous fair  
The bluest eyes and the gentlest hands.  
I love the ground on which he stands"

The singer was a confident tenor, untrained but with fine breath control. If the way he was singing weren't subtly mocking, it might have been a good rendition of the song.

"And you do have such lovely black hair, don't you, Mr. Holmes. And, well, those lips. I'm sure that odes could be written to your lips. Probably have been.

"But the bluest eyes… Are your eyes blue? It's so hard to tell, when they're so washed out. Don't like pale eyes, myself, find them creepy—no offense.

"BUT, you know who does have the bluest eyes? John Watson! Oh, now he has lovely eyes. Deep blue and so big and round. But you know all about that don't you? He's gawping at you like a lost puppy so often.

"It's a tossup on who has the gentlest hands, the good doctor, or the musician. Which would you pick, saying you could pick? You know—like some department store mannequin—just unscrew one set and put on another. Now wouldn't that be fun?" the voice giggled.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to block out the mocking voice and all that it seemed to insinuate. He had to concentrate on getting his hands free of the ropes. The owner of the voice wasn't in the room. Of that much he was certain. The voice was coming through a microphone to a speaker in the room, slightly behind him. They'd had a master sound technician. It was almost like a human voice in the room, warm and round, but the breath was just a little too loud, picked up by the membrane and echoing down the wire.

Most American accents outside of New England and New York sounded like drawls to Sherlock—all liaisons and strange, slow cadences with long pauses and hard stops. Like the speaker just couldn't be bothered to get to finish the word. While in England the distinctive accents marked a speaker down to his region of origin and where he had lived since, even sometimes down to the street within London, the homogenization of America blurred distinctions. He couldn't identify the speaker's accent. It wasn't full on Southern or Western, but veered between them. The way it sometimes veered sharply made him suspect that it might be put on, or at least not the speaker's native dialect.

He was blindfolded and bound to a wooden, kitchen chair, ankles strapped, wrists behind him at a painful angle over the back of the chair, rather than around it. By the strain in his shoulders he estimated that he'd been tied up for roughly forty-five minutes before he'd come to.

It was so stupid to find himself here—so far from home.

The first clue had been waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned from Mycroft's office, when he'd found out that John had never returned home from their trip to Scotland.

Just a piece of paper tacked to the door:

_Do you think they serve coffee in Coffeyville?  
__I doubt we'll get a decent cup of tea.  
__But if you've got some time to kill  
__Why don't you come over and play with me?  
__Let's play in the middle  
__And see what we see._

_-Jim_

Moriarty had John and the game this time was full of puzzles. Trivia puzzles by the looks of it, and Sherlock hated trivia. John would know; John liked to guess at QI and solve cross-word puzzles and those all required a general ignorance that Sherlock lacked, proudly, he'd have thought, until that moment, when it terrified him that his lack of interest in the silliness of the world might cost John's life. He needed John beside him for this one and that was what had been taken from him, as if he'd lost his sight when the puzzle required deduction.

So Sherlock had done what he always did when faced with a problem that was outside his area of expertise; he went to the internet.

Moriarty was in Coffeyville KANSAS? Over was over the ocean to the United States. So he was doubly blind; playing a game he didn't understand, in a country he didn't know.

Then Sherlock did the thing he never did when a problem was outside his area of expertise; he went to Mycroft. Within two hours was on a plane to TUL, Tulsa, Oklahoma with a car waiting to take him to Coffeyville, Kansas, the geographical center of the contiguous United States of America.

He hated the mid-west on sight. It was spread out beneath the plane, flat as a map on a table, in a checkerboard that must be farms as far as the eye could see. Some were greenish, some yellow but all had white spots of snow.

Quality hotels were light on the ground in Coffeyville, as in non-existent, so he found himself checking into something called a Days Inn and on a hunch went down to the pool at midnight.

And the next thing he knew he was tied to a chair with his shoulders aching.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Let me sing you a song."

The voice was blathering on, taunting, but suddenly he said something that made Sherlock stop to listen.

"My true love has black hair too you know. And his lips are wondrous fair. Not quite as nice as yours, of course (shhh…don't let him hear me say that, he gets so jealous), but his eyes are quite, quite black."

"So is his heart!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder.

"Better to have a black heart than none at ah-al!" the voice taunted back in a mimicry of Moriarty's sing-song.

"Whatever he's told you, it's a lie. If you are in a relationship with him, he's using you. He's incapable of feeling for another human being!"

"Oh, I didn't mean that he's my true love like _that. _He's my true love like God. And God loves us _all_. You have a filthy mind, Mr. Holmes.

"He even loves you. And he dearly loves little Johnny Boy."

"Where is John? What have you done with him? Tell Moriarty that this is a game between me and him." Sherlock couldn't help but grimace at the thought of John in Moriarty's hands.

"Now, now, Mr. Holmes, '_Why So Serious_?'"

So they could see his face, he thought.

"No, no response? Nothing? How very limited you are. Especially since you have the scowl, a cape (well, swirly coat), and of course, the little sidekick, your very own Robyn.

"When the red, red robin, goes bob, bob, bobbin…maybe another time. The voice in my head, oh, I mean ear! I get those two mixed up, is saying that it's time to wrap this up as your cavalry is arriving.

"Mr. Moriarty says to tell you that it is a game," the voice was suddenly hard, flatter, faster, less drawl, "and your John is the prize. But a game has moves, and this is just the opening gambit. Can you even see what kind of move you're supposed to make? Here's a hint? It's so easy, it's almost a freebie. Not quite as easy as the one that brought you here. But you figured out the swimming pool all on your own. Well done, you.

"Don't go far!

It's right next door.

Call it an ode

To your favorite bore.

"Robert Pinsky, it ain't, but what can you do, hmm?

"I think you'll find that we've left you a little present to welcome you to the United States. That's all folks!"

How the hell was he supposed to get out of here? He was just flexing his wrists again and wondering if he was going to have to break some bones when he heard gun-shots. What had Moriarty's minion said about the cavalry?

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes. Yell if you're alright and we'll find you," he heard a strong voice calling.

"I'm here!" he yelled back and soon hands were removing the blindfold and undoing his wrists.

The room was rapidly filling with men and women in black suits, all talking to one another with American accents. Some were obviously speaking into earpieces.

There was one man standing still just to the side of the door to the room. He was large, taller than Sherlock, and somewhat overweight, but he was visibly muscled, shoulders broad, back straight. He was in his late fifties, but still had all of his brown hair. Clearly he was in charge.

Sherlock strode up to him authoritatively as soon as he was free, rubbing his wrists and rolling his shoulders.

"Mr. Holmes. Agent Leland of the FBI. Are you alright? You need anything, water, bathroom break? We've also got an ambulance outside if you need one."

"I am perfectly fine. I need to see the suspect. I presume you have him in custody?"

"Well, custody isn't exactly the word."

"You…you killed him! Damn you. I needed to question him! He could have given me valuable information."

"I don't know about where you're from, Mr. Holmes, but in a kidnapping/hostage situation we get a shot, we take it. Especially when the suspect has a gun and looks to be ready to use it on his hostage."

"He wasn't going to kill me! I'm supposed to be alive to play the game!"

"Game, hunh? Can't say as it's been much fun so far. But again, we couldn't know he wasn't going to shoot you. We don't stop and ask questions and see if they'd like a cup of tea."

Sherlock was beginning to hate the sound of Agent Leland's voice. Slow and plodding—probably indicated a plodding mind. A downward cadence that made his questions sound like statements.

"I need to see the body at once."

"We've got people for that."

"I'm sure they won't find what I'll find."

"Be that as it may, we've got people for that. I'll take you out to it, but you can't touch it."

Seething, Sherlock followed the larger man down a small corridor. At the entrance to another room he managed to just stumble against the FBI Agent, having decided that having an FBI ID would be far more useful than having an FBI agent. But to his great surprise, Agent Leland caught his hand before he could reach inside the man's jacket.

"Now then, Mr. Holmes. I've heard of some things that go on at those public schools of yours, which I'm guessing you attended since you sound like the BBC, so, if this is some sort of strange greeting you've got over there, well, I'm willing to pass this off as a cultural misunderstanding.

"I have been _asked_ by those on high to look after you, and to assist you as much as I'm able, and we at the Bureau take kidnapping very seriously so we have a lot of resources going into finding your friend. BUT you do not have diplomatic immunity, Mr. Holmes, no matter how important your connection might be—mighty important I'm thinking as it made the Company ask us for a favor which they hate—so if, you were thinking of helping yourself to something of mine, you'd be looking at some time in jail. AND if you were thinking of doing anything with that object, such as flashing it around, well, that takes it up to felony and you might be looking at some time in federal prison and I'm thinking that might not be easy going for a pretty little twig of a boy like you.

"So we'll say no more about it, but don't think you can try your 'greeting' on any of my team, either. Some of them are a bit raw, and not used to having a firearm in their possession, if you catch my meaning."

Sherlock nodded sullenly, "Call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes sounds ridiculous." Evidently Agent Leland wasn't as slow as he seemed despite his apparent tendency to say 200 words when 10 might do.

"And you can call me Agent Leland."

There were technicians taking pictures and patting down the body, taking measurements and putting out markers. All in all, it was very thorough and in spite of himself, Sherlock was slightly impressed at their speed.

"Here's our unfortunate would-be kidnapper. Take a look and work your magic."

Sherlock looked up sharply from where he'd begun looking around the room and the body in it.

"Oh, yes, I've been briefed on you. Even took a look at that website. Interesting technique you got there. And an interesting enemy."

"I can't really do my 'magic' as you ignorantly call it, if I'm to be hampered from examining the body. I assure you that I'm trusted by the Metropolitan Police in London."

At that, Agent Leland threw back his head and laughed heartily, much to Sherlock's surprise and annoyance.

"Well, they did say you had a bit of an attitude on you. Still can't let you touch the body, but take a look around. Love to hear what you make of me."

Sherlock responded rapidly and carelessly, "Career FBI, probably recruited right out of college. Divorced, once, no twice. Grown children with no children of their own. Small dog. Expert marksman, but emotionally in control. Like to fish in your free time."

"Care to spell it out?"

"No. We haven't got time."

"Humor me," said Agent Leland in a voice that brokered no argument.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your suit is several years old and appears to have been let out and taken in a few times. Clearly you have needed the black suit for a long time, but as you struggle with your weight you don't think it worthwhile to invest in another. You probably struggle with your weight in order to pass the periodic physicals that are required by the FBI. You are in a position of authority, so you have risen over time. Some of the people in here show signs of their previous vocations—forensics, medicine, chemistry, etc. You can tell by the way that they're processing data. It varies in each of those occupations. You, on the other hand have been used to being in command of the crime scene for some time. Long service, just out of college.

"You play with your finger where a ring used to be. There's a little scarring around your ring finger, but the pattern has two different textures—two different rings. Picture in your wallet. Children, but their clothes were from a couple of decades ago, so no grand-children, or you would have replaced the pictures with ones of your children with their kids.

"Small dog is easy."

"Bite marks at my cuffs?"

"Excellent," Sherlock replied in his most patronizing manner. "Your instinct was to reach for your gun when I tried to— bumped into you, I could feel your muscles tense, yet you were clearly waiting to assess the threat. There are calluses on your hands from a lot of time at the shooting range, so either you're a terrible marksman who needs a lot of practice, or you're an expert by dint of practice, given the ease with which you were reaching for your gun and the wear marks on the holster, as well as your position of authority, I would say expert. Scars on your hands from fish hooks and snapping fishing line."

"Well, what they said about you does appear to be true. That's quite a process. You ever get tired of running around, there'd be a place for you teaching at Quantico."

Sherlock sniffed, "I haven't accepted the repeated offers to join the secret service in Britain. I'm hardly likely to work for yours. Now that you've been adequately impressed with my brilliance, perhaps you'll let me get on with using it in a more constructive manner?"

Agent Leland waved his hand in a sign of permission that made Sherlock bite the inside of his cheek to keep from lashing out. With barely disguised rage he turned at last to the body.

The young man, and he was young, barely into his twenties, was blond, with that strange popular style that seemed to be a sort of faux Mohawk. His hazel eyes were open and there was a little blood at the corner of his mouth. He was sprawled on his back with his gun in his hand, thrown there by the force of the kill shots that had entered his brain and chest. He wore a black suit with a narrow tie, in an impersonation of Moriarty, but the suit was clearly of a far lesser quality.

"Any identification?" Sherlock snapped at the young woman who was going over the body. To his further irritation she glanced up at Leland who nodded, before answering and even when she did answer, she was speaking to Leland.

"No, nothing in the pockets, and the fingerprints have been burnt off. Doesn't look like he has any distinguishing marks except for an earring which is too generic to mean anything. Likewise, the clothes are off the rack from some medium menswear store."

"Probably won't find him in your databases either," Sherlock added.

The agent nodded and returned to her study. "Might get some trace off the clothes and earring, source them back at the lab. Not much we can do here."

Leland stayed by the door as he had in the other room. Sherlock looked around. The sound equipment was, as he'd suspected top notch, as was the surveillance equipment that they'd used to watch him.

An agent came up beside him, "The video feed is being sent to an outside source. We're working on locating its destination."

Sherlock nodded.

Agent Leland allowed him, and oh, how it grated to see that that was exactly what it was, an allowance, to go over the building, as carefully as he wanted, but he found nothing of interest. The chair, the rope, the gaffa tape were all generic, and he was assured by the team that the way it was torn and any trace on the rope or chair would be carefully analyzed.

Finally, when he examined the building on the outside as well (a derelict building just outside Coffeyville that had once been a used appliance store), he yielded to Agent Leland.

"Now then, Mr. Holmes, Sherlock. That sure is a funny name, if you don't mind my saying."

Sherlock glared at him.

"Guess you do mind. Tell me anything and everything that you can remember."

Sherlock ran quickly through going to the pool and waking up tied to the chair. He told Leland that the dead man had taunted him and said that Moriarty had taken John.

He did not tell him that the man had sung him a song and recited a bad poem. Agent Leland nodded, made him tell it again to another agent and then had a car take him back to his cheap motel.

Once there Sherlock wrote down the poem and looked up the song. The poems and the song…

Where was he supposed to go from the directions in the poem and was the song important, or just a bit of madness from his would-be kidnapper?


	3. Chapter 2

Sherlock looked around the Kansas cornfield in all its empty glory. It depressed him in a way that the claustrophobia and dirt of the city never did.

So, here he was, in the exact center of Anderson County, Kansas, one county over from Coffeyville. A ridiculous clue to a ridiculous location.

And yet he had no idea what to do next. He hadn't spoken to the farmer, simply walked from the road leaving the car and driver (Mycroft was going to get quite a bill for private cars) until the GPS told him he was where he thought he should be. Walking around and looking yielded nothing. There was snow cover on top of snow cover and he knew that it had snowed the night before so anything done before that would be obscured. The ground was unturned as far as he could see. What was he missing? Something in all that mad chatter when he'd been tied to the chair?

"Mr. Holmes, Sherlock!" Agent Leland was walking across the field towards him, carrying a shovel.

"Agent Leland," Sherlock nodded, acknowledging the other man but not welcoming him. "How did you find me?"

"GPS, same as you found this place. Don't know what you're used to working with over in London, but we do have access to some technology. Talked to your friend the farmer—"

"He's not my friend…I don't have friends."

"Yeah, well, talked to the farmer. Said you didn't come up to the house, but said he wasn't surprised. He was told that you, that someone, would come by. Thought you might need this," Leland held up the shovel.

Sherlock looked at him keenly, "Told? By whom?"

"Young woman, he thinks maybe 18 or 19 came by two days ago. Said she was part of a college group doing a big puzzle game for a study and did he mind if they buried a piece of paper in his field for someone else to find. Showed him the paper, and before you ask, not what was written on it. Even offered him 50 bucks for the honor. Said a man would come and look for it in a few days."

"He just let her do that? She could have been planting a bomb! Are all of you Americans gullible idiots? What are you doing to catch her?"

"Got a sketch artist coming out now to get a composite. Agent Greene is taking a statement. We'll search this field if we have to rip up every stalk, don't you worry.

"_And we Americans didn't end up kidnapped four hours after we stepped off a plane_," Agent Leland continued under his breath. "Hope we can get this wrapped before it starts to rain," he said a bit too loudly when Sherlock glared at him.

"I don't like it. It's supposed to be something that I find—not a stampeding army of FBI agents."

"So, okay, you found it?"

Sherlock bit his lip, hating admitting his own failure, "Not yet."

"Maybe if you share the clue with us instead of hightailing off on your own, we could help figure it out?"

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look which caused Leland to simply tilt his head to one side in defiance. So Sherlock told him the rhyme.

_"Don't go far!_  
_It's right next door._  
_Call it an ode_  
_To your favorite bore."_

"That brought you here?"

"Anderson is a particularly stupid forensics technician in London. I guessed on the center of the county as that was where he'd sent me before."

"So we might be on the wrong farm? That's all he said? Nothing else, no other hints?"

"I've been running through it over and over non-stop in my head. He sang me a song."

"He what now?"

"Sang me a song." Sherlock sang "Black is the Color," in a simple baritone:

_"Black, black, black_  
_Is the color of my true love's hair,_  
_And his lips are wondrous fair;_  
_The bluest eyes and the gentlest hands._  
_I love the ground on which he stands."_

"Uh-hunh. Kind of know that one—old folk song. Mean anything to you?"

"No, never heard it before. He used it to mock me—black hair, blue eyes. Moriarty's black hair. I don't know if it's important. It has to be important."

"Anything else you want to share with the class?"

Sherlock glared at him. "If I knew that… There was one other thing. On the blog."

"Know about the blog, from your friends. Wondered how long it'd be before you mentioned it. Saw that new post:

_"Climb up my apple tree,_  
_Holler down my rain barrel,_  
_Slide down my cellar door,_  
_And we'll be jolly friends_  
_Forevermore._

"_That_ mean anything to you?"

"No. Clearly this farm doesn't have an apple tree."

"No, but it does have a rain barrel and I'm damn sure it has a cellar with a door."

Sherlock's face lit up. Agent Leland wouldn't have thought that the guy's eyes could open that wide or his mouth form that perfect an O. He had a lot of expressions for a guy with pretty much one attitude.

"Thought of something?"

"Not in the field! Under where he stands! His cellar probably extends under his porch, doesn't it?"

And the man was off, running towards the farmhouse, coattails swirling behind him.

Agent Leland touched his comm., "Miller? Posh Spice is heading your way hell bent for leather on getting into Farmer Brown's cellar—"

"It's Thomlinson, sir."

"What?"

"The farmer's name, sir. Mr. Thomlinson."

"Er, thanks for that. Posh Spice wants to look in that man's cellar and I've a feeling that tactfully asking for a tour isn't in his etiquette book, so broker the deal and send a team down with him. God knows he's enough of a hothead to get us all blown sky-high."

"Here now, sir."

By the time Agent Leland had crossed the field, the cellar door was open. He went down the four steps to find Sherlock holding a hot pink iPod Nano, headphones attached.

"One song on it," he was saying.

"Well take a listen, man. Don't stand on protocol now—since you haven't so far."

Petulantly, Sherlock replied, "I'm wearing gloves."

"Good on ya'. Agent Miller?"

"Sir?"

"See if any of the team has a set of iPod speakers so we can all take a listen. Was there anything else or just the little doohickey?"

"Another puzzle," Sherlock thrust the paper at the agent. He was grudgingly coming to at least respect the man as the best of a bad lot, rather as he felt about Lestrade, Dimmock and Gregson.

_A little trickier this time:_

_Is it hair, heir or hare? Confusing this English thing, isn't it? Amazing how it's bastardized, especially those accents the American's have, might get your directions all mixed up._

_But I did find you a nice violin recording. Hope you enjoy it. Perhaps you can play for me and Johnny Boy sometime. _

Leland turned to another agent, "Get a team down here to see if we can figure out when Moriarty's girlfriend came back and how she got down here without Mr. Thomlinson knowing.

"Find out about the dog," said Sherlock from where he was listening to the song.

"The dog?"

"Think! That dog has been barking non-stop since I set foot on this property, but not before. Find out if he was particularly noisy any time in the last few days. Find out if the dog barked in the daytime or the nighttime."

A female agent came down the stairs with a tiny set of speakers to plug into the player.

**A Song for **Hosted by eSnips

**Hopefully the widget appears. If not, let me know. A further hint will appear on Jim's blog tomorrow.**


	4. Chapter 3

**I really, really recommend that you read this at my Live Journal as there are a lot of images and links that won't let me use.**

**shouldboverthis livejournal com**

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They all stared at one another as the scratchy violin music climbed out of the tinny speakers.

"That's _Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair_," said Mr. Thomlinson, startling all of them with his presence. It was his basement after all.

_"Is it hair, heir or hare?" _muttered Sherlock. "It means nothing to me! It might as well be in a language I don't know." He stormed out of the basement, past the startled agents.

Agent Leland held up his hand to his team and followed Sherlock outside. The slender, young man was smoking frantically, practically eating his cigarette, by the time Leland caught up with him on the road.

"Son? You gotta' calm down. You're in a right state. You're not going to solve this storming about cursing and banging your head into a wall."

Sherlock scowled at him, but stopped his headlong rush. "Then what do you propose? That I sit down and familiarize myself with every piece of pop culture ever produced in this country?"

Leland paused, taking in the fluster, the slight vibration in the body, the fevered eyes. He certainly wasn't as good at it as Mr. La-Di-Da Holmes, but he could read a few things. His son was a bit like this guy, too much in his own head.

"When was the last time you ate? Slept?"

"I don't need to eat or sleep much when I'm on a case."

"Didn't ask that. Asked _when_."

"I slept two damn hours last night when I was chloroformed!"

"That's not sleep. I'm guessing it was more than twenty-four hours since you did either of those things and I think you really need a little of both food AND sleep right now. Let's get the food bit sorted and see if we can work through this mystery together. I might not have majored in pop culture, but let's say I minored in it. Saw a diner about a half hour back. Let's let that fancy chauffeur have some time off.

They rolled up to the diner—a sleek, silver bullet holdover from the 1950's—in Leland's Outlander. Leland grabbed his laptop before heading in.

Sullen Sherlock was very sullen indeed, Agent Leland was learning, from the silence he'd endured on the ride to the arms crossed, slouched posture. For a genius, the boy really did behave as though he was six. He thought about contacting the Metropolitan Police to find out about their tolerance level when it came to a consulting detective.

The waitress—her name was Kathy, Leland noted—seated them in a booth far from the door. Leland had the lawman's instinct to not have his back to the exit, but he let Sherlock choose his seat first.

"Afternoon, boys, "said Kathy, "Know what you want, or need a minute?"

Leland glanced at the menu, "You got a nice, fresh garden salad?"

"Yup. What'ya want on that?"

"Vinaigrette? That on the side, and a—" Leland wanted a big pot of coffee, but he didn't think Sherlock needed any more stimulants in his system, "—big glass of water, lots of ice. Slice of lemon?"

"Sure thing. And for you, hon?"

It was only when Leland had ordered the garden salad that Sherlock finally seemed to focus on Leland again, with a surprised look.

"What, you expected the only food in the States to be burgers, fries and a 32 ounce milkshake? Or is that just what you expected me to order? Gotta' lose some weight for my physical. Isn't that what you told me?

"You, on the other hand should have a Reuben or a Monte Cristo with a side of fries AND onion rings, two chocolate milkshakes and half of a pie done a la mode. Need to get as many calories, protein and carbs. down you as we can. Hey, look! They even do a Fish and Chips!

"Got all day breakfast too, if eggs, bacon and a short stack might be more up your alley."

"Give us a minute, Kathy."

"Just give a holler when you're ready," said Kathy as she started to move away.

Morosely Sherlock perused the laminated sheet in front of him. "Fine, fish and chips," he muttered.

Leland caught Kathy's eye before she was out of earshot and she nodded.

But when the batter encased fish with French fries, tartar sauce and a little cup of coleslaw was placed in front of him, he gazed at it in horror.

"What's the matter, hon? You don't like it? Tell you what," said Kathy, efficiently sweeping the plate away again, "you tell me what you want, anything at all, I'll have Stevie make it up for you." But Sherlock seemed equally at a loss as to say what he wanted, so Leland jumped in.

"How about the biggest breakfast you got? Breakfast can't be too different, give him a little of everything to choose from."

"We've got the Farmhand Special. Two eggs any style, choice of bacon or sausage, home fries, white or wheat toast. For a buck more you can have a short stack, chocolate chip or plain."

They both looked expectantly at Sherlock, but he had begun to scribble notes on the back of his paper placemat, so Leland answered for him, "Just bring all kinds and a plain short stack." Leland seldom used his expense allowance. He figured the Bureau could see its way to buying two breakfasts for some skinny British guy.

"And coffee," Sherlock suddenly chimed. "Black, two sugars."

Well, so much for no stimulants. "Sugar and cream on the table, hon. Be right back."

"Why does she keep calling me 'hon'?"

"Just bein' friendly. Probably thinks you need mothering."

"She's not that much older than I am and she has three sons. She hardly needs to adopt me."

No, thought Leland, but she can see how much you need mothering same as I can.

Sherlock Holmes. He was a hard man to like, and yet, he was a hard man to truly dislike. People did want to help him, in spite of themselves, or in spite of him. He wondered who looked after Sherlock when he was home in London. Was that what this John Watson did? Not that Leland was an expert, but the boy didn't exactly seem that way. Of course, he didn't exactly seem the other way either. Thirty-five years in the law enforcement had taught Agent Leland not to jump to conclusions without all the facts. He hoped he'd get a chance to meet this John Watson, but the experienced side of him told him that everyday made that more and more unlikely.

To his relief, Sherlock seemed content with the breakfast, although he pushed the soggy, scrambled eggs off to one side.

"Why is the bacon brittle?" Sherlock asked, experimentally tapping a piece against the side of the plate where it shattered. But he seemed content with the sausages and the sunny-side up eggs. He ate most of the pancakes and the home fries as well.

Agent Leland turned over his menu as well and pulled out a ball-point pen.

"All right, let's get it all down on paper. See if something hits us, now that we've eaten." He flipped open his laptop.

So, you got the first song: Black is the Color. And that poem about some guy back in London. Anything else you think might be important from that conversation? Now that we got some idea of how your guy is laying out the cards? Anything that you didn't understand that might be some American thing?"

Sherlock shut his eyes to remember. "Robert Pinsky."

Leland made a quick search. "Former Poet Laureate. Had a book called "An Explanation of America." Might be something there. Let's move on."

"Said something in a funny voice. It was supposed to mean something to me and he was surprised that it didn't. 'Why so serious?' then how I had a scowl, cape and very own Robin." Sherlock looked up at Leland puzzled.

Agent Leland had to bite his cheek, because he really could see it. I'm Batman. But he managed to put on his trained FBI agent face again.

"It's a reference to Batman. The Joker in the movie would say that—kind of sounds like your Moriarty. And Robin was Batman's sidekick—thought not in that film. Next?"

"John's not my—," he shook his head. "That was it. He gave the poem. Mentioned Pinsky and then said that's all folks and your team showed up."

"He said 'that's all folks?' Those were his exact words?"

"Yes. What are you thinking?"

"The next song was "Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair, right."

"Yes, but then he wrote hair, heir or hare."

"Mm-hm. I was thinking maybe 'I Dream of Jeannie,' the show, because of the pink player, but now I'm thinking something else. Anything new on the blog?"

Sherlock looked surprised. I haven't had a chance to check it.

Leland nodded. He was doodling while he watched Sherlock. Sherlock as Batman. Yeah, that really worked. "Google the following things: "I dream of Jeannie she's a light brown hair Pismo Beach"

"Yep, just as I thought. Try Bugs Bunny Pismo Beach."

"It's all videos."

* * *

"Albuquerque? You think I'm supposed to go to Albuquerque?"

"What about that last bit?"

Leland tapped the screen, "Casas de Suenos. Means house of dreams. I think you've got your answer. BUT, and I do mean this. First, you are going back to your hotel and you are getting at least four hours of sleep. Ah..ah.. no buts. I will post a guard if I have to, maybe even one inside your room."

"I don't know what you've been told, but I don't need a babysitter."

"No, but you might need an assistant. I'll have one of my team book your flight, so you won't lose any time. Just get up and go, after your nap. Deal?"

"What about you? Will you be there to hold my hand?" Sherlock mocked, but there was less arrogance in it than before.

"Nope. You do seem to leave a lot of paperwork in your wake. Go, check yourself in. If you need me," he scrawled his number on the corner of the placemat, "call this—direct to me."

And so, seven hours later, Sherlock let himself into the room that was waiting for him at the Casas de Suenos in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

He opened the door to discover that the room was entirely packed with yellow roses. The smell was nauseating.

He slammed the door and called Agent Leland.

"Do not go in! I'll have a team out to you in fifteen."


	5. Chapter 4

In the absence of any hotel clues, Sherlock checked into the Days Inn in Amarillo, Texas.

_Good God, are all the hotels in America this wretched? At least you can smoke anywhere in Texas. _

Yellow roses, "The Yellow Rose of Texas," Amarillo means yellow. He was rather proud that he hadn't needed Agent Leland for those answers, although at first he'd been thrown by the language of flowers and he still wasn't' sure if it were a clue or not:

_Friendship—me and John, obviously_

_Jealousy—the kidnapper in Kansas mentioned Moriarty's jealousy_

_Infidelity or apology—how does Moriarty know that John and I parted badly? _

_A broken heart—unimportant_

_Intense emotion-yes, though I wish it weren't_

_Dying love—THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN_

_Extreme betrayal—but whose?_

Would it be important later on?

The roses had been sent to Quantico, although no one had any hope of getting anything of value from them. They hadn't with the evidence so far.

Interestingly, the hotel claimed they had only brought in two bouquets of roses, not the roomful that had been waiting for him. Someone had managed to bring one hundred and sixty-six bouquets of twelve and one of thirteen into a room in a very small hotel and no one had noticed? There was a small patio off of the room, but of course, it was a blind spot in the surveillance tapes. Once the roses were removed (and the room still reeked) he had gone over every inch as well as searching most of the hotel, but found nothing of note.

_1993—important? I was 17—not a good year. Could Moriarty know that? Knew about my interest in Carl Powers._

He checked the blog for any hints of where to find the next piece.

Clever you finding Amarillo,

But I'm so changeable as you know.

Like your Watson, I got shot.

He survived; I did not.

I may have shot someone, but then a gem shot me.

Think of the spot where they say I needed to be.

There's a colour and there's a song.

Tell me where and I'll send you along.


	6. Chapter 5

For four days Moriarty kept him waiting. For four days he wondered if he had misread the clues and was in the wrong place altogether. And if his errors were costing John.

He emailed everything new to Agent Leland who agreed with his solution, for what it was worth. Mycroft left voice messages agreeing that this was the location. And yet, for four days there was nothing.

He spent his days and much of his nights checking and rechecking. He went to The Sixth Floor Museum. He sat in Dealey Plaza Park retracing the path of the motorcade, evaluating shot lines, standing on the grassy knoll. He sat in the Subway on the corner watching the park, trying to see something, anything, that might indicate the next step. The knowledge that Mycroft's team and the FBI were also monitoring did nothing to relieve his mind.

He even went to the rather pathetic Conspiracy Museum, but there was nothing. When he wasn't outside he sat in his hotel room in the Hyatt Regency chain smoking and scanning the park through binoculars. Occasionally he ate. Occasionally he was harassed by the staff at Subway for not eating. Occasionally he would wake up and realize that he must have slept.

Moriarty's blog too was silent. He even went to the Police Station where Oswald was shot and, under a request by the FBI was given full access, but there was nothing. The police agreed to let him know if anything turned up.

And he could guess nothing from the second part of the clue:

_There's a color and there's a song.  
Tell me where and I'll send you along._

At last, on his seventh visit to The Sixth Floor Museum the message came.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked one of the tour guides. They all knew him by now. "This was sent to us, but addressed to you. Happy birthday, by the way. I know it's not the happiest one, but I hope this will make it better."

He took the pink envelope that she held out to him and was horrified to find that his hand was trembling. Despite wanting to rip it open, he made himself put on gloves and send a picture to Leland before carefully slitting it open.

"Happy Birthday!" it proclaimed obscenely across the seal.

_You've been so patient; I'm impressed,  
T__hough I thought you'd at least take a guess.  
__You must try harder to be your best._

_What color is the grassy knoll?  
__What becomes of a hanged man's soul?  
__Does he at last go home  
__To be buried under the loam?  
__There was an anniversary yesterday  
__Of a man I admire in a way._

_Go where Bugs Bunny was often bound  
__Because it's really such a funny sound._


	7. Chapter 6

There is a large, helpful sign outside the state Penitentiary in Walla Walla Washington, like the Hollywood sign only smaller. A penitentiary is a mini-city unto itself.

Agent Leland met Sherlock at the gates. His team had already begun processing the whole prison. It was going to be a long job. Or so they thought. For once he felt like they might be able to actually process a scene without Sherlock's intervention.

He was shocked by Sherlock's appearance. In just a week he had to have lost ten pounds, leaving him nearly skeletal. His eyes were sunken and dark, skin dry from dehydration and there were yellow nicotine stains on his fingers that hadn't been there before.

If we don't come to the end of this adventure soon, he thought, it's going to kill him, forget about his friend.

"You eaten anything for a week?"

"Some."

"Slept?"

"Maybe."

"Ok, son, we're going to go to that Chinese restaurant over there and you're going to eat something, if I have to have the waiters hold your mouth open while I shove it down your stubborn throat."

"But I need to see the prison," there was a broken whine in his voice, whereas a week before it would have been more angry.

"Sherlock, I can't just let you roam a prison. For one thing, it's enormous, and for another, well, it's a prison. I've got a team of fifty people working this case. They're scouring the area; they're looking at prison records. They find anything, they'll come get us. No problem."

Reluctantly Sherlock allowed himself to be led away, casting looks over his shoulder as if he thought he could break free of Leland's guiding arm.

Leland pretty much ordered everything on the menu, up to and including lychees.

"Spoke to your— sorry, spoke to Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard."

Sherlock focused on him. "Why?"

"Well, he's had dealings with this Moriarty before," and you, he thought to himself, "just trying to cover all my bases."

"Did you learn anything from him? He's the best of a bad lot, but that isn't saying anything. He let him get away last time."

"Mm-hm," heard that was more due to a certain arrogant SOB not telling people what he was doing. "Told me you liked Chinese food."

That finally got a rueful smile from the slender Brit.

For once Sherlock seemed eager to eat, to the point where Leland had to tell him to slow down lest he make himself sick.

"Do you believe in evil, Sherlock?" he asked while the other man finished off a pot of Oolong and picked at was left of the Pu-Pu Platter.

"Evil, no…well, I say no…evil presupposes the opposite good."

"And you don't believe in good?"

"I don't believe in God, if that's what you're getting at." Sherlock sighed rather dramatically. "I suppose you do and this is one of those boring American things where you try to lead me in prayer."

"For a man who prides himself on observing people, you sure have a lot of preconceptions and stereotypes in your head. We're not all street preachers. I like God. I figure he likes me just fine, but we don't bother much in each other's lives.

"The man in your puzzle, Westley Allan Dodd. One that brought you here. He was what anyone would call evil. He even believed it himself. Pretty much the worst evil in the world in my eyes—torture, rape and murder of little children. He said he should die fast, or he'd escape and do it again. Of course, by the end he said he'd found Jesus and that people could change.

"Reckon your guy can compare with that?"

"No, I mean, I don't know. Do you consider terror evil?"

"Yes. To kill, 'cause you have to, that's one thing. Kill in a moment of rage, that's another. Not good, mind you, but it's over fast for both of you.

"But to want to extract pain, terror, humiliation from your victim. To enjoy watching them suffer, where the death is the least of it. That, that is evil. What causes it, I don't know. I think the devil is an excuse we like to use."

"He likes terror. The cabbie, he liked to make people take their own lives. The bombs on people. Hearing the terror in their voices. Making John and Lestrade hear the terror in their voices. I don't know how far it goes after that." If it was possible, Sherlock went even more pale, and for a moment Leland thought he was going to have to catch the man as he fainted.

"And he has John," he moaned.

It took six and a half days for Leland's team to find it. As they cleared areas Sherlock was allowed in to look, but he couldn't go down into the cells and that drove him mad. Leland found himself in the unenviable position of standing watch over a man who was going out of his mind. He felt like he had Sherlock on suicide watch, only a very slow suicide by self-neglect.

In the end, it was the most ridiculous thing and so easily missed if Sherlock hadn't insisted that they search at night as well as during the day. The glow was caught in the edge of an agent's night-vision goggles.

So, they dug down until they found a wooden box with a puzzle on the lid.

Leland watched Sherlock visible relax when the dusted and cleared box was placed in his hands. Here at last, was a puzzle that he could solve.


	8. Chapter 8

The Red River Valley, the one that supposedly inspired the song, is a narrow and looping river that flows into of Canada and forms the border between Minnesota and North Dakota. Or so Sherlock discovered from the internet. The "man" part of the puzzle could mean Manitoba, but he thought that Moriarty wanted him to stay in the United States. There's a lot of river to cover—635 km in the US—and nothing to go on. His best guess, and how he hated to guess, but that's what this game had reduced him to, took him to the bend in the river right at the border. He wondered if people could row in boats down the river and enter the US illegally.

There was a small path in the woods along the bank. He'd been sitting on a soft rise for almost an hour, smoking steadily. He was cold, but that and the nicotine sharpened his mind.

"Mind if I join you?"

He glanced up at the woman who had emerged from the trees. "FBI?"

"What gave it away?"

She was slightly above average in height—perhaps five foot nine, so taller than John, dressed in a grey anorak but unzipped, and Sherlock saw the tell-tale black suit with a pale blue shirt. It could be something he would wear. She wore sensible boots, though not ones suited for serious hiking. Her dark hair was kept naturally close to her head. She wasn't pretty, her features were too raw for that, but she had a certain simple attractiveness that he thought would have appealed to John.

"The fact that there's no one else around for over a mile. And the black suit."

"That would be us. The men in black." She made a mock bow. "Special Agent Donna Jamison, at your service.

"Do they wear black suits at Guantanamo?" he asked drily.

"No," she said as she sat down on the slight hillock with him, "that would be the other guys. We hunt aliens, the ones who need green cards, AND the little green ones too."

"Sometimes I feel that all of you are speaking a different language. Americans, I mean."

"Separated by a common language? Can I bum a cigarette?"

Sherlock held out his pack, and his lighter. There were only four left. That meant he'd smoked 56 today. He thought wryly of Agent Leland's objections, and then of John's.

She took one and the proffered lighter and lit up, took a deep drag and coughed slightly.

"Quitting?"

"I'm trying. First in…" she counted, tapping her fingers with her thumb a few times, "a month and a half. You've corrupted me."

"How did you find me? I turned off my GPS."

"Agent Leland said you'd be up here. I happened to be in the neighborhood."

"You just happened to be in Pembina, North Dakota?"

"You've got to understand the American mentality. East Coast, New England, neighborhood could be one town over, maybe two, twenty-five to fifty miles. Down the coast, Virgina, southern states, fifty miles to seventy-five miles. Eastern mid-west, Ohio, Michigan, seventy-five miles to one hundred. Out here, anything from one hundred to two-hundred miles. Hours drive to get anywhere is standard. I was in the state. Leland thought you might need someone to look in on you."

"I told him, I don't need a babysitter."

"Fine, the Bureau wants to keep up with your investigation, okay? If you find anything out here, we want to take it back to Quantico and at least try to get some forensic evidence."

"You haven't found any so far."

"No, but we're pretty persistent.

"We take kidnappers seriously. And bombers. That's sort of our raison d'être."

"You _should_ be worried about Moriarty."

"So I've heard. This guy has everyone worried; fingers in everybody's pies. Big enough to cause Interpol to talk to your team in England, oh, what are they called, that show…Mom likes it…thinks the guys are cute—MI5! Wasn't too impressed with the brunette, but the blonde wasn't bad. Then whoever your friend in high places is who talked to the Company and managed to get the Company to ask us to work with you, which hasn't happened since J. Edgar first wore a dress."

Sherlock made another face at her pop culture references. He wondered what Mycroft would think about being called his friend in high places.

"What bothers me is that this guy is young," she went on. "How does he have all these connections? Do you think he inherited it, the way the syndicated crime families do? Or apprenticed to some other psychopath, learned the trade?"

Sherlock looked at her then, really looked at her. "I hadn't thought of it—it was always personal between us. I don't know. It does seem extraordinary when you look at it like that."

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette and templed his fingers under his chin, considering.

Suddenly he turned to Agent Jamison and asked, "How old is your daughter?"

"How did you…? Oh, it's that way you observe. Hank—Agent Leland was impressed, and he isn't impressed by much—he was my mentor at Quantico, and he was hard to please. So, what's my giveaway?"

"It's an easy one. You have a pink children's band-aid on your leg that I can see between the hem of your trousers and the top of your boot. You wear no ring, although that could be because you're divorced or because you never married, but I would say that you're divorced. You've recently been given a new firearm, because it's uncomfortable to you, and alters your posture which is slightly sloped to the other side from carrying an older child."

"Very nice. But you can't tell how old my daughter is."

"Seven?"

"Good guess."

"I don't guess."

"Hmm," she cocked her head slightly indicating skepticism. "She's eight, nine in three weeks.

"Her father was a schoolteacher. Very nice man, no animosity, but it's hard being married to anyone in law enforcement. He didn't like me to be out there on the front lines. Wanted me to practice, safe and sound. He couldn't understand why I need to do this. Why I need to try and make the world a little better, a little safer for everyone."

"Law enforcement in your family?"

"Dad's a cop. Drove my Mom out of her mind too, but they haven't split up yet.

"Yes, it's dangerous. I've drawn my weapon three times but haven't fired it. Every morning I put my daughter on the bus, and I think, will she be safe? And sometimes I wonder how she'll cope if she loses her mother. But you can't live like that or you'd never leave your house and that's not living. So I kiss her good-bye, and go out and do my job. I think about how if she doesn't feel well, I think is this something serious, but I can't keep her in a clean room free of germs either. Living is a risk."

Sherlock thought about how he constantly put John in danger and what it had led to. "Why do Americans do that? Blurt out their entire life story to someone they don't even know?"

"Hmm, I can't answer for everybody, but I do it to take a read. Try to find a common ground. Do they seem interested in what I'm saying or repelled? Do they make no response at all? That's telling in and of itself. _You_ find it strange and annoying and yet you're cataloguing it for possible future use."

"What do you do for the FBI?"

"Profiler. That skill's not much use on this case. We already know his profile, what he looks like, what he does. We just don't know where he is, where he's going and who he's got working for him. Sort of like the Company and Osama."

"Interesting way of deducing things."

"Yup, that's what I do with my expensive psychology degree."

"I don't believe in psychology."

"Well, that's fine, Mr. Holmes. You may not believe in psychology, but psychology believes in you," she smiled at him.

"So tell me the clue. It's the song, right? The Red River Valley?"

"Yes, The Red River Valley."

"Emm, don't know it, but if you hum a few bars…"

Sherlock flinched at yet another reference that he couldn't identify, a reminder of this puzzle that he couldn't solve without help and that could cost John his life. "Can you try not to do that? Speak in references and Americanisms? It's very irritating to me."

"Okay, sorry, sorry. Tell me the lyrics."

"From this valley they say you are going.

We will miss your bright eyes and sweet smile,

For they say you are taking the sunshine

That has brightened our pathway a while.

So come sit by my side if you love me.

Do not hasten to bid me adieu.

Just remember the Red River Valley,

And the one that has loved you so true."

"Well, I'm sitting by your side, but I don't love you, no offense. What do you think? Planning to walk the path as the light leaves the valley?"

"Something like that, yes."

She pulled out her phone and flicked through it for a moment. "Sunsets in 34 minutes. Do you think we should start?"

"We?"

"I'm here to help. Should we start at opposite ends of the path? I presume you've already walked it in broad daylight?"

"Yes, a couple of times."

The path was no more than a quarter of a mile long, but the curve of the river made it impossible to see one another at the opposite ends. They exchanged phone numbers and Sherlock walked out to the western end and started back.

The sun was cutting nearly straight across the ground by now, and it illuminated a little grove that had been heavily in shadow before.

"Agent Jamison?" Sherlock asked into his phone.

"Did you find something?"

"What are the little crosses that I see by the side of the highways here?"

"Usually a shrine to someone who died there, probably in a traffic accident. Why?"

"Does it seem likely that someone would have died along this path?"

"I'll be right there."

She came around the bend a jog and joined him by the cross in the hollow. The cross was a simple wood affair with no wreath or markings, but with an intricate set of metal plates at the top, each about the size of an index card. Each plate had different openings, rather like a set of old fashioned silk screens.

When the dying light shone straight through all of the plates, the message was illuminated on a tree behind them.

#640000 + #000064


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock chose a smoking suite in the Hilton Garden Hotel in Washington, DC, all on Mycroft's tab, of course. It was a long shot, but it was the best he had. He wondered fleetingly if it were out of the Secret Service budget or if it was Mycroft's own money. He had to admit that without Mycroft's help he would never have been able to carry out this search and would have been dependent on the Americans to do their jobs well.

He expected another wait but to his surprise on his second day, the American holiday, Martin Luther King Day, he received a visitor.

There was a light knock on the door. He peered through the eyehole and then opened the door on a petite woman with thick, wavy auburn hair that was gathered loosely at the back of her neck. Her skin was pale white, as pale as his own, but with the iridescent pink tinge of a true red-head.

"Mr. Holmes? I'm Irene Norton." Her accent was flattened by years in America, but there was still the beautifully modulated sound of British classical training in her voice.

He knew her of course. She was one of John's favorite actresses. John had made him watch all of her movies, some of which were vapid romantic comedies, but some were intriguing and she was always excellent.

"Ms Adler?"

"Yes, Adler was my stage name, but I'm married now. May I come in?"

"Oh, of course. Come in."

She was even shorter than he had first assumed as she was wearing boots with four inch heels, certainly no more than five feet tall. Turning back to the room he realized that there was a miasma of smoke that she was trying politely to ignore.

"I could open a window if you prefer."

"No, no. I remember the days when this was the norm."

Up close he could see that she was older than he had first thought. "Ms Norton, forgive me for getting straight to the point, but why are you here?"

She sat down neatly in one of the stuffed chairs. Her feet barely touched the ground. "I was asked to deliver something to you."

His eyes narrowed, "Asked? By whom?"

"I don't actually know."

"Do you commonly accept requests to be a messenger?"

She smiled. "No, Mr. Holmes. But I was…persuaded to do so. But I might have done it anyway to get a chance to meet you."

Again he gazed at her speculatively. Unlike many she held his gaze evenly. "You helped a friend of my mother's, Charlotte Miller?"

"One of the librarians at the Bodleian?"

"Yes, it was remarkable that you were able to retrieve those stolen plates. Charlotte couldn't stop talking about how marvelous you were when the police had given up.

"I believe you are here on a kidnapping case?"

"How do you know that?"

"There are certain advantages to being both a Senator's wife and a UNHC Goodwill ambassador. One can often find things out from one's bodyguards.

"I see that you are suspicious, and I don't blame you."

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning."

"Alright. This envelope," she pulled a manila envelope from her handbag and handed it to him, "was sent to my fan club about a week ago with the request that I take it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who would be staying at this hotel in a week.

"Obviously my staff returned it with a note saying that I was not able to take requests from fans, here's a signed picture, etc. It was returned to my home address with the word Neville scrawled across it, as you can see."

"And Neville meant something to you."

"Arthur Neville was a professor of mine at Oxford. We had an affair."

"So you're being blackmailed."

"In a way…"

"In a way? Would your husband be upset?"

"Godfrey? Heavens, no. We have no secrets. And before you ask, I was of age and neither of us was married. No, Arthur was a communist. He ran in the by-election for the party. While I was with him I fancied myself a communist too."

Sherlock must have looked puzzled because she went on, "My husband has presidential aspirations. Bad enough he married a Brit AND an actress which means he's half socialist already, but to find out that I had an affair with an avowed communist? Unfortunately, in today's political climate, such little things can derail the best of plans. And my husband would make a very good president."

"You realize now that you've given into Moriarty's demands on one thing he can up the price next time and have a hold on you forever."

"Moriarty? Is that his name? No, I won't do anything else that he asks, no matter how small. As I said, I wanted to meet you. I thought that while solving your case, you might be able to help with mine. Doing this buys me time to figure out what to do. To put a positive spin on it as they say. If he goes public, well, we'll just have to deal.

"Neither my husband nor I would be able to go forward thinking that we had betrayed our principles just to protect ourselves. One cannot let oneself become the monster one is fighting. No, he may think he owns me, but he doesn't.

"Have you seen my film, _Piccolo_?"

"I believe that I've seen everything you've ever done that's been recorded."

"I had no idea that you were a fan."

"I'm not. But my…friend and flatmate, John was—is an enormous admirer. I thought _Piccolo_ very good. I also enjoyed _From the Edge_."

"Good heavens! _From the Edge_? You must have searched a bit for that one."

"As I said, John really enjoys your work. He's made me watch several of your early appearances as well and things I didn't enjoy very much like _That Funny Thing_."

She laughed delightedly, her face crinkling up. "I wouldn't watch _That Funny Thing_ if I weren't in it. And you've seen me in "The Bill" and "Casualty"? He must be devoted. I'd be happy to sign something for your friend if you think he would enjoy it."

Sherlock's face must have shown more than he would have liked.

"Oh, is he the…"

"Yes," he responded too sharply, "You were saying about _Piccolo_?"

"It's not important, but I was just thinking how in _Piccolo_ I played the blackmailer, and it was so simple. You pay me and I give you the negatives and the prints.

"Now, there are no negatives, just an electronic file that could be around the world before I even know it exists. Ultimately privacy will become a thing of the past."

"And yet, there are still ways to hide."

"Yes. Do you mind opening it while I'm here? It's been x-rayed and it's not a bomb. I suppose it could be chemical or biological, but it's sat on my dining room table for a week and nothing has happened. I only ask because I wonder if I was chosen for a reason. That I might be able to help you in some way, if that doesn't sound too vain. I'm sure that there were many more important people he could have blackmailed."

He nodded, took the hotel paperknife and slit the envelope. Inside were three pieces of sheet music with no words.

"You sing as well as act, don't you?"

"Yes, let me see." She paused, glanced at him and then pulled out a pair of reading glasses. "Dum, de, de, dum. I'm afraid don't sight read very well. I have near perfect pitch so I learn while it's played. Julie, Julie Andrews has the same problem. Lazy of us.

"You know what? There's a pianist downstairs in the bar. Let's go down and have him play them. He might know them even if I don't or I might recognize them when they're played."

The pianist was more than happy to do a favor for, as he put it, 'The wonderful Irene Adler.'

"Oh, I do know that one! And those too!" she exclaimed.

Between them she and the pianist figured out the songs and she sang them for Sherlock in a clear, spirited mezzo, apologizing for being out of practice. By the time she had finished with all three she had gathered a small crowd who begged her for more songs.

Sherlock took his laptop to a table and looked up the lyrics to each.

(Where Are You) Now That I Need You

Orange Colored Sky

What Do You Want to Make Those Eyes at Me For


	10. Chapter 10

The colours, the coulours. They had to mean something. He had talked it over with Irene, after she'd sung a few songs and signed a few autographs.

And so he had chosen the song with the colour—orange.

What it must have cost to have done this. The FBI were looking into who had booked the venue, but he knew that it would trace back to nothing.

You had to climb pretty far up into the bleachers to see the whole thing, but there it was, painted on the Astroturf in the SunLife Stadium in Miami Gardens, Florida.

Image at my LJ shouldboverthis

We're almost at the end, gentle readers. Big finish next-tell me where.


	11. Chapter 11

"The bluest eyes and the gentlest hands…"

A voice coming through high quality speakers, just like at the beginning only this time it was Moriarty's sing-song Dublin accent, mocking.

Sherlock spun around the empty room, "So, have we finally come to the end? We've been though all the colours of the rainbow. I'm here in what used to be The Rainbow Room. Show yourself!"

"Ah, I made that mistake before. No, this time I'm at a safe distance. But before we go on, call them off."

"Call who off?"

"Your Scooby Gang,"

"I don't know what that means."

"The FBI! Take out your phone and send them somewhere else."

Reluctantly Sherlock pulled out his phone and pressed the number for Agent Leland, "Leland? This location is a bust. Go to the other point. I'll meet you there." He closed the phone.

"Good boy. Crush the phone under your heel. Good. Now strip."

"I'd prefer not. I'm not interested in a relationship."

"Fresh!

The voice was hard again. "Strip so I can see if you're wired. You can put them back on after I see that you're clear."

Sherlock dropped his coat from his shoulders, removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He bared his chest and turned all the way around.

"Oh, now, tut tut. Back too. All the way off, if you please, and even if you don't please. If CONVENIENT, or even if INCONVENIENT!"

Sherlock undid his cuffs and peeled off his shirt.

"Trousers."

"You're kidding?"

"No false modesty, please. We both know that you're a showoff."

Sherlock shut his eyes. "I don't wear underwear."

"REALLY? That I did not know. Amazing that you can still surprise me. But you can put your hands over your...manhood. I promise I won't peek."

Sherlock shut his eyes. He rapidly undid his trousers and slipped them down. He was so thin by this point that he could have nearly taken them off without undoing them.

"Like what you see?"

"Another time, pretty.

"You can get dressed now."

Sherlock pulled his clothes back on.

"Now that I've proven that we're alone, tell me where John is."

"Do you really think that the game is over and I'm just going to give him to you?

"Go into the next room for the next puzzle. I think you'll like this one. You've played it before."

In the next room, there was a small table with two monitors and a keyboard with only two red buttons.

"Look at the screens."

The screen on the left lit up. It was John, tied to a chair with a needle in his arm from a IV bag running into a vein in his arm. John was desperately thin and haggard. He was blindfolded, but his hands were struggling against his restraints.

"You know what John is, Sherlock Holmes? He's an adrenaline junkie, so that bag will give him exactly what he wants, a nice dose of cocaine. Your drug of choice, I believe."

"You could kill him."

"That's rather the POINT!"

Sherlock studied John's face. He looked haggard. He had lost a great deal of weight and his skin was sallow.

"Kill me. Kill me instead. I'm the one that you want. The one you want to stop. I'm the one that you've always wanted."

"Oh, I'm not going to kill him—you are."

The other screen lit up. There was a little girl tied in a chair with the same set up in her arm, but unlike John she was wide awake and apparently screaming in terror. There was no sound.

"See the two buttons? One will release the drug into Doctor Watson's arm, and the other will kill the child, but I'm such a silly thing, I can't remember which button is which.

"So you pick. One button or the other. You have five minutes to figure it out."

"What if I refuse to pick either one?"

"Then I choose for you, and you get to watch them both die."

"Who's the girl?"

"What does it matter?"

Sherlock paused, "It would matter to John."

"I honestly don't know. I just grabbed her off the street. If it would make you feel better, let's call her Jane."

"Let her go. Hook me to the chair and I'll pick a button. John or I."

"Really? This is a change from the old Sherlock Holmes. Once upon a time you wouldn't have cared about lives."

"I'm not the old Sherlock Holmes."

"Pity. You have 4 minutes thirty seconds."

Sherlock studied the screens and the buttons, buying for time. He knew that Leland wouldn't have been thrown off by the call. The FBI had agents at three locations: his, the College of Optometry where the Aeolian Hall used to be, and even, based on a hunch, on 46th Street, half way between the two. But none of that would matter if they didn't find John and the girl in time.

"Do I get a hint? The cabbie said I was playing against him, not the odds. Am I playing against you? How do I know that either button will work?

"Or that you won't change your mind again."

"You don't. But, and this is a promise, if you don't push one of those buttons in 4 minutes you will watch them both die."

Stay calm, he thought to himself. It doesn't matter that it's John. Focus on any clues for locations.

Shadows different behind them, so not in the same location. Concrete different too, but other than that both rooms featureless. Chairs the same—basic office furniture, the girl looking small in hers. She had stopped screaming and was crying, sobs wracking her body. He wondered if they had told her what would happen to her.

He moved his hands over the buttons. He had no intention of pushing either one, but part of his mind, that cold piece that John feared, was playing the game. Bluff ? Left for left and right for right or reversed. Completely false, either button triggering both?

"Three minutes," came Moriarty's voice again.

"Shut up," Sherlock snarled.

"Losing your temper? Tut tut. That won't help at all."

He continued to study the screens. Think! Think!

John suddenly tilted his head as if listening. And then Sherlock heard it too. A helicopter, outside the building, probably monitoring traffic. Could they be hearing the same thing? Could John actually be in 30 Rockefeller as well?

He wracked his brain running through what he'd studied of the building's plans, empty offices, office being renovated. One on the third floor—too low to hear the helicopter. One being renovated, 60th floor, but carpeting already down.

Sixty-eighth floor—yes, empty offices, carpets already ripped up!

He spun from the monitors and sprinted for the emergency stairwell, Moriarty shouting behind him. Could he run up three flights of stairs in three minutes? Two and a half?

He took the stairs three at a time, careening around the landings. There was a fire alarm box outside the door to the 68th floor. He slammed his fist into it, breaking the plastic and yanked the lever as he opened the door.

Internal offices—no windows…he threw open doors one, two and there—Moriarty standing by John's chair reaching for the IV feed.

Sherlock was not the greatest fighter in the world. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone. Admission of weakness was, in his mind is an admission that he was human. He held his own in a fight, but often resorted to dirty tricks to win, not strength or skill.

But he thought he might be able to kill with his bare hands in order to get to John tied in that chair.

He slammed into Moriarty with all of his force, knocking the shorter man to the floor. The fluid was already running down the tube to John's arm. Moriarty's scrabbled for his leg, but Sherlock managed to rip the needle from John's arm with a fierce yank that made John scream but at least the liquid was dripping to the floor.

Moriarty caught his foot and yanked him back. Moriarty was smaller but he managed to throw himself on top of Sherlock and pin him to the floor, trying to catch Sherlock's arms as they swung up. He grabbed gripped Sherlock's throat. Just before Moriarty could close off his air Sherlock shouted, "Scream, John!"

John began to scream as loudly as he could, his voice hoarse and weak, "HELP, IN HERE, WE NEED HELP!"

Somehow, through the shrill pipe of the alarm someone walking down the stairwell because of the firealarm heard. Moriarty released his hold on Sherlock's throat and was gone.

Shakily Sherlock sat up and struggled over to the chair. "John, JOHN," he cried and he was so terribly reminded of the pool that he shook as he struggled with the straps and pull the blindfold off.

John opened his eyes. His dazed blue eyes took a moment to focus on Sherlock's face. "Took your bloody time," he said and managed a lopsided grin.

Sherlock smiled at him because he was afraid that he'd start to cry if he didn't smile, "I was held up at customs."

"Customs, hunh? Guess we're not in England, then?"

"No, we're in America, New York City."

"Always wanted to visit New York. Can't say I'm impressed with their hospitality," John gasps and then he fainted into Sherlock's arms.

For a moment of nearly blinding panic Sherlock thought it was over, that he was too late, but he found a strong pulse in John's throat and pressing his ear to John's chest he heard him breathing, although there was a worrying rattle in each inhalation. Sherlock didn't even notice that was crying and if he had he wouldn't have been able to say whether it was from sorrow or relief.

The alarms stopped and a few minutes later Leland's men arrived.

Sherlock held onto John until the paramedics were prying him away, and even then he managed to hold onto John's hand and demand to be allowed to ride in the ambulance. The paramedics looked to Agent Leland and he made a tiny nod, granting permission.


	12. Epilogue

"Well, son, I have to say it is a real pleasure to meet you. I gotta admit I didn't think I'd get the chance. That friend of yours is pretty persistent," Agent Leland gave a hearty laugh and John joined in. There'd been so many new faces, new people to meet. For a reserved Englishman, it was all rather overwhelming.

For three days they kept John in the hospital hooked to IVs. There was no lasting damage, starvation, dehydration, shock, but nothing more serious. Well, physically. Sherlock refused to leave John's room, watching John's thin frame as he slept. John had lost twenty-pounds he didn't need to lose. There were more lines around his eyes and he looked colorless and crumpled against the sheets. Sherlock forgot to eat or sleep and midway through day two, he fainted when he tried to get up from his chair so he ended up on an IV as well, to his great annoyance.

When John had recovered, they were moved down to Quantico to give all the agencies better access.

And all the agencies wanted access. Both John and Sherlock were questioned about every little detail of where John was held, the clues again, the voices they'd heard, and then questioned again by different people in different suits. Most were American but there were also some English and some Europeans-Swiss, German, French.

John kept asking if he could go home, back to England, back to 221b with Sherlock, and answer the questions there, but even Mycroft's office couldn't override the formalities, not without creating an international incident. Not when things were just beginning to even out in their relationship with the States.

The hotel where they were installed was very nice, opulent even, and they both had their own suites next to one another, but John had had enough of closed off rooms. He would sit on the balcony whenever he was back at the hotel. DC in late February was still brisk, but clear with some glorious days. When not being questioned he walked everywhere with a bodyguard lurking behind.

Agent Leland came by and introduced himself, and being rather observant himself, joined John on his walk, dismissing the bodyguard despite protests.

"I'm armed son, and a damn fine shot. I'll get him back in time for whatever's next on his agenda."

"Your…friend cares for you a lot. A reckless lot," he said as they walked along Pennsylvania Avenue. "I don't want to lay it on you after everything you've been through, but I really did worry that he was going to kill himself on this case. Watched it just about drive him mad. I set him down and fed him a few times, but I couldn't sit on him to make him sleep."

John was surprised. No one had told him that, least of all Sherlock himself. He'd noticed the thinness taken to gaunt, knew that Sherlock abused himself during a case, and saw that Sherlock had started smoking again, but he'd attributed it the fact that smoking was easier in a lot of places in America.

But he and Sherlock hadn't spoken much. In the hospital John had been in and out of consciousness, with nurses and doctors and security coming and going. Mycroft came over but he was in meetings and discussions all day and much of the night and barely had any contact with Sherlock, dropping in only briefly to be as impeccably polite to John as always, but there was a cruel set to his lips that made John remember that Sherlock called him the most dangerous man in England.

In the hotel their schedules seemed designed to keep them apart. Sherlock was often out at Quantico looking at the collected pieces.

"Self-preservation isn't his strong suit, is it?" Leland smiled.

"No, it's not. He often does…stupid things. To prove he's clever. The first night I was with him I had to— rescue him."

Leland cocked an eyebrow, "With him?"

John looked around at the white stone architecture of Washington. He wasn't quite sure how to answer that anymore. "As a flatmate. As a friend."

Leland nodded.

The conversation on the rest of the walk was ordinary. Leland asked him about English sports, what he thought of America, what he'd seen of it. Easy and friendly.

"Gotta admit, old football, _our_ football, man myself. Tackle in high school and college, but your rugby without pads. Now that's some serious game."

So John talked about his rugby days and the teams he followed.

As they parted at the hotel, Leland said, "Look after yourself and him. He's quite a guy, could do a lotta good with that brain, but he's got to get over himself first."

John had to laugh. It reminded him of what Lestrade had said.

John was flabbergasted when Irene Norton came to see him.

"You have no idea how big a fan I am of your work, Ms Norton."

"Oh, Irene, please." She took him and Sherlock out to dinner and explained her involvement in the case.

"Sherlock told me about what a fan you are of my work and I am so flattered. I had the master of _From the Edge_ put on a DVD for you since it isn't available, well, legally. And I'm not sure if you enjoy my singing, but here are my two albums as well."

John blushed. He did have her albums, but to get them directly from her hands was a thrill.

"Sherlock, you will be happy to know that I've come up with a solution. That man won't be able to use me ever again.

"I've announced that I'm writing my memoirs and hinted that it will be full of juicy stories. Head it off at the pass, as the Americans say. If he releases anything I can simply say that it's all going to be covered in my book."

Sherlock smiled, "Very clever. Eliminate the possibility of blackmail by not keeping the information secret. But you were worried about your husband's career?"

"Yes, I still am. But I think that coming clean may lessen the impact. Popularity and gossip go far to Americans. I really don't have anything salacious to write, but I do have a few good anecdotes about the famous. I'd been thinking of writing my memoirs for some time. I'll talk about my training, what it was like to come to America. Hopefully Arthur will just be a little blip amongst the rest."

"Now, I'm sure that you two haven't had a moment to yourselves. You're both rather shaggy, if you don't mind my saying so. I'm going to bring my hair stylist down from New York to give you both haircuts, and perhaps a day at a spa. The Americans are big believers in spas."

The friendly generosity of the Americans overwhelmed John everywhere he went.

Finally, after three and a half weeks they were allowed to return to Britain in a private plane.

Agent Leland's came to see them off.

"Been interesting working with you, Mr. Holmes. Consider what I said about teaching a course at Quantico, maybe down the road when you get a little tired of running around.

"Come back to America anytime," he paused and then added with emphasis, "if you want a _vacation_."

John mused that Sherlock would never be able to take anything but a busman's holiday, but he knew what the Agent meant.

John was afraid that the plane would be claustrophobic for him, but fortified with valium he boarded the plane with Sherlock.


End file.
